


stuck

by yamzy



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Introspection, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, self-punishment while watching your ex sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 20:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yamzy/pseuds/yamzy
Summary: in which junmyeon is unlucky enough to sit in front of his ex . . . in the middle of traffic.(really: junmyeon is stuck in traffic, and in regret)





	stuck

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: i wanted to write something before i bury fiction for years again. please take note that i practically forced this out of myself, without prior thinking and editing after. yay. hence, this fic morphed into something . . . poisonous. i don’t even recognize junmyeon in this, but i do recognize everyone who was him (bonus points if you’re _still _him). happy scorpio season. may we all be better.__  
>     
>  __non-edited.__
> 
> __(i'm also talking about philippine pesos, btw)__

 

He really should have booked an Uber instead.

 

What is 350 pesos than to stay in awkward silence while facing your ex for two hours of mind-numbing traffic, anyway? He should’ve just swallowed the costliness, and closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t be able to see the price while he worked the app. He was probably going to be better off with that sizable dent in his wallet than the situation he found himself currently in.

 

But of course, his friend Minseok—the ever-so-sensible one—goaded him not to. “Yah! You’re spending 400 pesos on a single ride?” his friend had chided him with. There was a kindness in his friend’s usual sharp eyes that made him swallow his prepared retorts whenever Minseok questioned his financial decisions. So he wasn’t reprimanding that time—it was a clear and pure instance of _guilt tripping._ “I mean,” Minseok had started, “you could get home with only 40 pesos. That’s like, a fraction of the price.” He remembered he had barely opened his mouth to reply and question his friend’s math, but of course, his friend beat him to it. Minseok waved his index finger in front of his face. “Don’t give me that look. We don’t need precise math in daily conversation, Myeon. You really should stop trying to bring in too much complications in your life, you know? Which is why you should just follow what all of us simple plebeians do and _commute._ ”

 

So here he was, commuting, and all he could think about was that _this complication_ —he didn’t bring it into himself. This was all Minseok Kim’s fault and once he was home, he was going to spend the entire time telling the boy how much this was _his_ fault. He could’ve been in the comfort of the backseat of a cool, comfortable, brand new car instead of the hot, sweltering 12 inches of space the old, rickety vaan afforded him with. Moreover, he could’ve been free from the curious and stolen gazes of . . . . No. Junmyeon wasn’t even going to acknowledge him. He wasn’t even going to think about hi— _that_. All he was complaining right now was the heat. Yes—the heat, the sweat dripping down his back, the cramped space . . . he wasn’t going to let his mind fall into that trap. The hell he was experiencing right now was the hell of every commuter bracing the traffic, and the _only_ reason he’s mad at Minseok is because of pettiness. That’s it. That really is it. For _all intents and purposes_ , the man seating in front of him, affixing him with a heavy gaze, as if trying to challenge him to talk . . . he was a stranger. He was nobody but a stranger who he was going to share an hour and a half (a hopeful estimate considering it was Friday and the night before a holiday) and forget soon after. He was unremarkable, and completely forgettable.

 

Exactly what he used to tell himself six months ago when he was trying to get over him.

 

He shook his head and hugged his backpack closer to his chest. Although he kept his eyes to the ground, the man’s stare was heavy enough that he could feel it boring down on his very soul. He hugged his backpack even closer. For the other passengers with them, it might look like an effort trying to occupy as little space as possible. But the weight of his stare betrayed the fact that yes—he knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to establish a protective barrier between him and the man in front of him—a futile attempt considering that there was no way his dirty Herschel can safeguard him from two years of emotional baggage. If he had only been more vindictive, more petty, perhaps like Junmyeon was, he would probably have smirked and said something to mock him. But he remained quietly staring . . . passive, and just observing. Never the one to fight, much less instigate it. It used to drive Junmyeon to the brink of frustration every single time—apparently nothing much has changed.

 

Yixi—no— _he,_ because he refused to acknowledge the fact that he knew the man’s name—cleared his throat, as if preparing to speak. Junmyeon waited for him to say something, but a few seconds passed and he heard nothing. All he could hear were the loud rumbling of the car’s aged aircon, the angry Korean rap betraying the confines of his seatmate’s cheap earphones, and the soft murmurs of the car’s engine, typical for a vehicle its age. There were no whispers, mutters, or even at least a sign of a grunt from the man in front of him. He was completely silent, but Junmyeon knew that the opposite lied within the man; he was probably containing much anger, pain—noise, perhaps enough to even leave him deaf. But Junmyeon would never be left deaf, because the man would never voice everything out. He didn’t before, anyway. Who’s to say things would change now? It has been six months already. Being stranded together in the back of a cramped, crowded, sweltering, old van would not change things. Yixing— _fuck the no-mention rule was stupid anyway, Minseok_ —would never say anything against Junmyeon, and in return, he would never swallow down his frustration about the _calmness_. Yixing would never talk, would never complain, would never fight—for or against him, he wasn’t sure. And Junmyeon? He would never back down, never stop pushing, never stop being dissatisfied. Their relationship was an endless push-and-pull, a never-ending cycle of hating compromise. Breaking up truly was the only solution that made sense. Six months and being stuck in a hellish situation would never repair things. Miracles just didn’t happen.

 

He remained quiet then, knowing Yixing was expecting him to speak. If this happened maybe two or three months ago, he would be doing it out of spite, challenging Yixing to take charge—to be the one, _for once_ , to say something. But now, he was just tired. There was a tiredness that has seeped into his bones a long time ago that seemed to have awakened in the man’s presence. Maybe it was the realization that the facade of “moving on” was simply a veneer of denial that he fed himself, maybe it was the threat of the happy memories rushing to the surface, maybe it was the thought that maybe—just _maybe,_ they could have done things differently. With that thought, he scoffed. Sensing the man in front of him bristle at his sudden noise, he buried his face more into his bag. The cloying sentiment was paralyzing him, clouding his judgment. Nothing could have been done for them before—and even until now. Theirs was not a fairytale.

 

The car suddenly moved faster, speeding through the road and taking advantage of the free space it has suddenly been gifted with. It was perhaps the cool atmosphere of the nighttime that was drowning Junmyeon with sentiment, enveloping him with irrationality, teasing him with “what if’s” and “maybe’s”. But then again, there was a worry underneath his skin trying to creep out, questioning if he—if _they_ —had made the right—

 

No.

 

He made a decision six months ago, and it was not wrong.

 

He took a deep breath, finding himself suddenly running out of it. He felt a heavy weight pressing down his chest— _fuck he cannot be having a panic attack in public transportation._ His mind was racing, his hands were starting to feel clammy—he . . . he needed a distraction. Perhaps his mind did hate him, because it chose to settle his eyes on the window opposite him. As the car zoomed past houses and buildings, only one thing remained constant in the view—the full moon. It stayed stationary in its position, and because the universe thinks of him as its most hated child, it relegated the moon only inches away from the face he did not wish to look at, to see, to be _in the mere presence of._

 

The moon, the silence of the night, and Yixing. God. The universe truly hated him. After months of pretending, of burying his feelings, the memories, here was the universe mocking him by reminding him of his life for two years. Of what he had. Of what he lost.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Perhaps it was always there, hiding under a veil of denial. Perhaps it left him before, as he enjoyed a period of empty happiness. But the bitter sadness suddenly sprang up to him, pushing him near the edge, dangling him off the cliff. The weight pressed against his chest seemed to have grown heavier, settling inside him. He could feel the weariness inside him, as if his entire system just gave up. After months of pretending, it appeared that his mind has finally stopped denying and caught up to the tiredness of his body.

 

There was a spark of energy within him, though. It whispered to him, asking him to _look_ , to pay attention—to do what he didn’t before. For the months that passed since their breakup, he silenced that voice. He refused to mention Yixing, to acknowledge their two years together. He blocked him on all social media platforms, deleted his number, and distanced himself even from their mutual friends. Hell, he even ran away and avoided Yixing’s mother when he saw her in the supermarket. He pretended Yixing never existed, that he never met him. Minseok had said it was stupid; he had said it was necessary. Looking back, it was stupid.

 

Because he had never been good at depriving himself. His impulses were always paid attention to, and his whims were always met. It was the reason why he and Yixing balanced each other out—he was the noise, the lightning crack, the thunderstorm, and Yixing was the cold calmness that appeared after. It was also the reason why they broke apart. He was just . . . too much. And too much rainfall has always drowned people.

 

He was selfish and he knew it. He pushed Yixing, as if taunting him, just to satisfy his curiosity. How would Yixing fight back? Would he snipe at him? Would he make subtle, but snide comments? Or long, detailed arguments pressing every button in him? The possibilities excited Junmyeon. It was as if he wanted to see Yixing’s limits. And since the rush clouded his judgment, he let his pure selfish interests take reign.

 

So, he let _her_ in. Her name wasn’t important in their story—she wasn’t important to him anyway. But he admired how much she _pushed_ to be important to him. Moreover, he was admired how much she pushed. Her heavy gazes, her flitting touches, her soft, purring laughter—Junmyeon let that in. In fact, he crossed the lines of tolerance and even mirrored them. It was a game, he had thought to himself, but she wasn’t the other player. She was unimportant in the game, only a mere passerby who happened to useful. No—Yixing, with his all observing and watchful gazes, was the most exciting opponent of the game.

 

It was . . . irrational, to say the least, but logic had never been Junmyeon’s greatest points. The rush of his curiosity, the thrill in the possibility of being wanted, of being claimed, of being fought _for,_ of being the only one Yixing fought _against_ —all of these overtook him. He stoked the fires of jealousy that appeared in his boyfriend, and tested the strengths that their two years boasted. It was prime time for more excitement, he had always justified within himself. All he was waiting for was Yixing to just . . . _push._

 

But he didn’t.

 

When Yixing asked him, with his soft voice that was barely managing to keep the anger in, what he was doing with _her_ , it didn’t come to him to stop lying. To stop pretending that he cared about her, just to goad Yixing into making him tell the truth.

 

When Yixing told him to stop, it didn’t come to him that this was Yixing _pushing_. That him being angry wasn’t because he was angry at Junmyeon’s stupidity (even though he really should be), but because he was hurt at being at the end of Junmyeon’s games.

 

It didn’t come to him that Yixing was hurt—period.

 

Because when Yixing asked him if he still wanted him, it didn’t come to him to say yes. It didn’t come to him to not laugh and mock the statement, to not think it was silly, to not realize that Yixing could, and would leave him. Maybe not because he wanted to, but because he thought Junmyeon did.

 

It didn’t come to him that when Yixing finally pushed, he’d immediately pull back, leaving him no chance to catch him.

 

Six months. It had been six months since Junmyeon said no to Yixing’s question, and it now just came to him how much he regretted it. Minseok Kim was right—he really didn’t deserve Yixing. And when his gut agreed by saying that he never really did, it was right too.

 

The car ran over a speed bump, jostling some of the passengers inside. A few rustled from their sleep, subtly wiping the corners of their mouths with the back of their hands. He swallowed the new wave of loneliness stabbing him in the chest. Yixing had taught him to pay attention to that before, saying it was so common but no one would mention it out loud. People helped each other keep their dignity intact, even strangers—it was one of the peculiarities of humans, Yixing would say. But now, he felt as if he was one of the drooling passengers and Yixing was loudly mocking him. He was supposed to have moved on, and yet here he was, his stoic defenses crumbling down at the man’s presence. The dignity he so carefully tried to keep was slowly deteriorating, and Yixing refusing to snidely comment upon it, leaving him to rot in his own self’s ruin, was perhaps the most hurtful mockery of all. Aside from selfishness and stupidity, the need for attention had always been one of his greatest faults. And yet, here it was, being robbed from him. He was gifted with a good sense of self-awareness, however, so he knew he deserved this. He knew himself; Yixing not paying attention to him, being the first one to move on—to escape from their relationship unscathed—this was the best punishment for his sins. The universe knew what it was doing when it decided to side with Yixing and exact revenge upon him. He would have agreed wholeheartedly with its methods if it hadn’t hurt so much.

 

There was one thing that he knew could help him. He didn’t know if it would relieve the pain, or add more to it, but the impulse that tickled his skin reminded him of the life he used to lead—when he used to meet all his whims like demands of his system. It was then that he realized that Yixing was never just one of his whims, perhaps truly the only one his being demanded. And he has been depriving himself of that for long time now.

 

So he threw caution to the wind and let his eyes traverse the few inches that bridged the gap between the sight of the full moon and Yixing’s sleeping face.

 

He looked with a watchful eye. He tried to notice the changes that has happened since he last saw the man six months ago. His hair was a bit longer now, looking a bit coarser than it was before. It could’ve been the stress and grime that came with a day’s work, but Minseok had mentioned before that Yixing dyed his hair blond right after their breakup. (It puzzled Minseok before, but Junmyeon knew Yixing always wanted to dye his hair. What he didn’t know was why he still remembered this.) The childhood fat in Yixing’s cheeks have seemed to have lessened, paving the way for the showcase of those cheekbones and jawline. Those had always been two of Yixing’s greatest points—too bad he never believed him. No, scratch that. Yixing’s greatest point wasn’t his bone structure—it was the fact that he never listened to Junmyeon, to his compliments and his praises. Modesty looked ugly at other people, but Yixing wore it like a second skin. It used to frustrate him endlessly before, but now, Junmyeon was glad. Yixing saved himself by not listening to him. Look who was sleeping blissfully now.

 

He felt his heart skip a beat as he watched Yixing move a bit in his slumber. That should’ve been a stark reminder that with all his sins, he really shouldn’t be looking at Yixing—shouldn’t really be enjoying being stuck in the cramped space that they were in. But, he has never been good at following rules nor in disciplining himself. He was Junmyeon Kim—selfish, arrogant, pushy, spoiled, and stupid. As he was sentenced to a lifetime of regret, he was going to take all slivers of happiness he could get. Because that was what he was good at— _taking_ and _using_ and _hurting_. He really didn’t deserve it, but he was going to enjoy the forbidden. Let the universe punish him again. He’s already suffering anyway.

 

His eyes fell on Yixing’s mouth, and he wondered what the man’s signature dimples looked now. Did they get deeper, if that were even possible? Are many still enamored by them? How many girls—or guys—did he get with those? Junmyeon had been the first guy to fall for them before, or at least, the first one Yixing gave permission to. He wondered if he could be the first one to be given permission to fall for those again.

 

No.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

No.

 

He was selfish, but he wasn’t cruel. It was as if he never learned—he shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts like this. After everything that he has done, after everything that he _could do_ , why is he even considering subjecting Yixing into the inhumanity of being with him? He gave himself a chance before when he allowed himself to indulge and date Yixing. Look what had happened. He was toxic and while in the end he had poisoned himself, he couldn’t risk affecting Yixing too. Not again.

 

Glowing brightly, the moon taunted him as it casted light on Yixing’s sleeping face. He looked so calm, so serene, so _peaceful_ that Junmyeon just wanted to jump out of their moving car—all just to make the nagging guilt stop. In his sleep, Yixing look at ease, out of worries and apprehensions—the exact picture of his normal state without Junmyeon, and he felt guilty by even daring to consider getting back tog— _no. No. No._

 

Junmyeon swallowed the lump in his throat, because he was not about to bawl in the middle of a cramped car. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to compose himself, promising himself that once he opens his eyes again, this will be the last time he will allow himself to look at Yixing. He had done enough already; he didn’t deserve anything more than this. The universe was a clusterfuck of different combinations of different coincidences, but he knew that this ride—this instance of seeing him again after rearranging his entire life just to _not_ see him—was not part of them. It was a good thing he didn’t subscribe to pure rational logic, because the only thing that provided him comfort right now was that this was the universe’s way of punishing him. He had forgotten his sins as he drowned himself in denial—he didn’t deserve that. He had to be reminded of the pain that he caused and was capable of causing, so that he could refrain himself from diving headfirst and begging for forgiveness because it just wasn’t for him. He didn’t know if Yixing would forgive him, but for this he didn’t want to know. He was afraid that Yixing would, actually, because that would only mean that the man was laying himself down on the line for Junmyeon—like he always had, and because he’s Yixing, will probably always will. This was not a coincidence; it cannot be. It had to be the universe swooping in to save Yixing from him—it had to be, because Junmyeon couldn’t bear the idea that the universe would callously let this be a coincidence, that it would callously choose to put Yixing into a scenario where he could get hurt again. Junmyeon had to believe that Yixing had the universe had his side; it was only then that he could forgive himself.

 

The car passed the bright lights of the McDonalds fifteen minutes from Junmyeon’s condo, while Yixing probably had thirty minutes more left in his commute. Fifteen minutes of peace after he left—that was all Junmyeon could offer to Yixing. And maybe, together with a lifetime of being a stranger, that was all that he could offer. A clean cut. He has done enough, anyway.

 

A couple of college kids stumbled drunkly in one of the pavements that they passed, probably trying to come home from a party. They were near his place. He stole one glance at Yixing. This was it. His last chance. His last look. This was the only time he could relish in seeing that face, the only time he would allow himself to mull over their relationship, the last instance that he was going to lick his wounds and feel sorry for himself. This was it—the final time he was going to experience the life that Yixing’s presence brought. This was the final taste of what he had, and what he could still have had _if only_. . . . Cliché as it sounded, he braced himself for the goodbye. This was the final stop.

 

Yixing’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. Disoriented, he woke up, shaking his head a bit. He craned to his side to check where he was and upon realizing, his eyes immediately went to Junmyeon. He had been playing with fire, and he felt like a child caught at it. He looked away from Yixing immediately, but the few moments that Yixing saw his gaze linger on his face was enough of an indicator of what he had been doing.

 

He felt sick. Here he was again, taking advantage of Yixing. All of these just proved how true he was about how incorrigible his toxicity was.

 

He could feel the bile rise up to his throat. The air in the car suddenly seemed stuffy—he couldn’t breathe. He had to get down of the car. And no—before his brain even suggest it—he was not going to spare Yixing another glance of goodbye. He has _had_ enough.

 

With a weak voice, he managed to tell the driver to stop the car. Grabbing his bag, he hurriedly got off and walked briskly towards his condo. He refused to let himself look back, keeping his gaze affixed to what was in front of him. Left in front, then the right, then the left, then the right once again—he reminded his feet as he walked away. He was scared that he would suddenly turn back, because once he had, he didn’t know if could stave off the deprivation he felt. A bloody turmoil ensued inside him, as a small voice argued against him and his claim of selfishness? He, who had proudly claimed the label of selfishness, selflessly walking away to avoid hurting someone? It was impossible. But he knew that he wasn’t doing this out of pure martyrdom. He would hurt himself more if he went back—he knew that. There was no way he would remain fine knowing that he’d hurt Yixing again; in fact, it would pain him more. So yes, he was doing this for himself. Being with someone so kind, so pure, so _good_ when you know you aren’t anything akin to that to offer, much less to be proud of—that would hurt the most. This is all self-preservation. Let him be the scum of the earth that he was—he didn’t want to change or conform or to contest that anymore, especially for someone as _good_ as Yixing.

 

Trying to convert the bitterness in his chest into something remotely resembling anger—which was failing, to be quite honest, he continued to tread down the path that he started. He was blind and deaf to his surroundings, and it was just lucky that there wasn’t anyone who was blocking his way. All that he had in mind was his destination—his condo, sleep, a brand new day tomorrow without Yixing. His was a life that was going to start anew, and he was going to relish in the rush of that. There is no more greater thrill than the excitement of change anyway.

 

Suddenly, a hand caught his arm and stopped him from walking further. Instinct told him to turn around and lash at whoever it was, but he knew in his gut who it was. He dug his heels into the ground and refused to turn around.

 

“Myeon,” the voice behind said. It had been six months since he last heard that voice, and he didn’t—he really . . . he really couldn’t explain . . . it was like having a rug pulled under your feet, only to leave you falling into an endless pit. The laws of physics would probably be astounded by that, considering—

 

The hand tugged his arm with more strength now, interrupting his thoughts and forcing him to finally face Yixing. “Myeon,” he repeated.

 

“What?” he asked, trying to convince Yixing of the defiant spoiled brat that he was, but all that came out was a weak mumble.

 

“Can we talk?” Yixing asked.

 

“Haven’t we already done that before?” he retorted, with a little more strength in his voice now. The sharpness that he was trying to achieve in his tone was still not there though, so he compensated with raising his chin higher, looking uninterested with whatever Yixing wanted to say. He tried to check for signs that the other man was backing down—like everyone always did when he was like that—there was none.

 

Yixing’s shoulders slumped. It was either because of the unsatisfying sleep in the cramped space, or the fatigue accumulated from the entire day—Junmyeon wasn’t really sure. However, it was clear that it wasn’t because he was backing down from Junmyeon. He never did before, and perhaps the six months that have passed haven’t changed that. He, however, had the appearance of someone whom life has caught up with, dumped with its baggage, unrelenting as he tried to escape. They were in the same situation that they were in six months ago, another crossfire, and Yixing seemed to know that. Why he was trying to repeat it, Junmyeon didn’t understand. But it just because he didn’t understand it that he was going to let it continue and unfold.

 

He pulled his arm away from Yixing’s grasp, but the man’s grip remained strong.

 

Yixing took a deep breath, as if to compose himself. He looked up at Junmyeon, and in his eyes was a determined gaze. “No.”

 

“No?” Junmyeon raised one eyebrow.

 

“What I mean is, I want to talk.” Yixing stepped closer to him. “Now, can you listen?”

 

All of Junmyeon’s doubts and racing thoughts halted when he asked Yixing ask. Suddenly, he was taken back to their last conversation, to Yixing’s last question, to his answer—the one thing that he wished he could take back the most, because he had lied, out of pettiness and spite and pure arrogance and stupidity. Yixing deserved honesty—hell, _he_ and their two years together deserved his honesty and he never gave that before. But the possibility of what could happen after planted the doubts that had dissipated just moments before. No matter how this ended, he was going to hurt Yixing again. He was just going to—

 

Yixing tugged his arm again, and opened his mouth to talk again.

 

Junmyeon fixed him with a steady gaze and answered him. “Yes.”

 

 

 

 

Yixing _pushed,_ and now he was asking Junmyeon to do the same. He wasn’t going to say no to that again.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for staying through this exercise of intense self-blaming, disrespect to tenses, and abandonment of other punctuations except dashes. 
> 
> please stream tempo and namanana


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